


when the fight is long (we'll get back up and carry on)

by RUHX



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24538441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUHX/pseuds/RUHX
Summary: The sergeant walks to their position and Cooke quietly murmurs “here comes trouble,” which earns him a swat on the shoulder and a quiet careful from Rossi.“Cooke, Singer and Butler - report to the officer’s dug-out, in your own time,” Then he saunters off, back up the line not waiting to see if they’re in tow. Cooke swallows, eyes glancing quickly to Rossi and puts his rifle over his shoulder properly and heads after the sergeant.
Relationships: Private Cooke/Private Rossi (1917)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	when the fight is long (we'll get back up and carry on)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sledge for the beta!
> 
> Fic done on minimal research (or I will spend ages going down various rabbit holes and I need to finish researching WW2 RAF before I can get more in-depth with WW1 research). I do intend to come back and retcon odd inaccuracies as I get more in-depth with my WW1 research.
> 
> Not the first fic I've written but this is the first fic I've posted.

Cooke stands fidgeting on the firestep, the thought of sleep tempting but his nerves too shot to allow himself to entertain the possibility. He’s stopped flinching so badly at the random casual sprays of machine gun fire, aimed at those ballsy enough to cook over an open flame. He still flinches at the star shells, bright bursts of light sent up to throw any working parties over the top into stark contrast against this hellish landscape.

“Steady on, lads,” the sergeant murmurs as he walks past Cooke and Rossi’s position on the firesteps. Cooke breathes out slowly, his breath condensing into a cloud in the bitter air of the night. He hates this - waiting and peering out into the wastelands of no man’s land - the shell craters and rotting, bloated bodies littering the barren two hundred and fifty yard stretch of land between the English and German trenches which are really no more than a muddy ditch. In many ways the waiting’s worse than the fighting. When you’re sent over you know what to expect - maybe an instant death by machine gun fire if you’re lucky, or a slower, more agonizing death if you're caught by a stray bullet or shell. And if you somehow survive that, there's always death by infection. 

Cooke chances a glance at Rossi but he’s peering down the sights of his rifle, breathing steady and even. He wonders how Rossi could be so calm or how he compartmentalizes any fear or anxiety so at least it doesn’t show. Cooke kicks himself for getting complacent, too caught up in his thoughts to do his duty and scans the void between the trenches, flinching with a small _fuck_ that comes out more as a breathy gasp as a sniper shot rings out, breaking the silence with a crack. 

He chides himself - stupid for thinking he could make any ounce of difference out here or do anything his father would be proud of. Don’t think of home - he tells himself, having signed up to get away from home in the first place. Not that the front is much better but at least he’s treated kinder by those on his side.

The rest of the night goes like that. Cooke’s thoughts drifting off down long winded rabbit warrens that curl back on themselves, lead to dead ends or bring him right back where he started until a star shell, warning flare or rattle of a machine gun brings him back to his senses. It’s not long before the stand to order is issued and it’s a relief - not much longer before he can move. 

After stand to the frantic firing of the rifles, a friendly reminder to the Germans they’re still there. Cooke lets his frustration seep into each shot, not bothering with controlling his breathing when he’s just firing aimlessly into the relative positions of the Germans. By the time it’s over Cooke’s hands are trembling - he doesn’t know what it is but sometimes it’s just like that. Some days he gets so worked up he can barely disengage the safety and operate the bolt to clear the breach.

The rum ration is a welcome relief, even if Cooke still doesn’t like the stuff. He swallows it in one gulp, pulling a face at the burn as it goes down but he can’t deny that it warms him and helps to beat back the chill of the night that had seeped into his bones. 

Breakfast goes by without remark, the food stale and flavorless. The piss water passing as tea isn’t much better. There’s the usual banter but Cooke’s not paying much mind to it, his mind insisting on drifting off elsewhere but Butler throwing his water canteen at him brings Cooke back to the present. 

“Oi!”

“Thought you were thirsty,” Butler deadpans. 

“Well I ain’t - bloody watch where you put that thing next time,” Cooke snaps, looking frantically for something to throw back but coming up empty. The canteen’s too far out of reach to grab whilst seated and palm fulls of dirt or a charger of bullets doesn’t quite have the same effect so he settles for kicking Butler in the shins instead, not caring that his boots are sodden and caked in mud. Butler swears in response.

“Careful Butler, Cooke will get you before the bloody Bosche do,” Rossi sing-songs. Cooke curls a lip into a mock sneer at him but the banter’s familiar, routine and welcome. 

“Too bloody right,” Cooke snarks back. Rossi watches the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. They’re sitting close enough for Rossi to press his thigh into Cooke’s, for the touch to linger when Cooke’s silence lapses on a beat too long. It’s a silent way for Rossi to ask if he’s okay but there isn’t anything else to say so he dips his head slightly in a nod.

At eight am, Cooke helps the rest of the lads clean their section of trench and cleans his rifle begrudgingly - it’s difficult to clean anything when you’re living in a muddy and often waterlogged ditch. Cooke spends a little too long focusing on cleaning his rifle, specifically the action of cleaning the bore with the pull-through. When he’s done, he puts the bolt back in place and he’s given a nod and that’s the inspection passed for another day.

Dinner at noon is also uneventful though Cooke doesn’t have much appetite for it. He eats in silence watching Butler out the corner of his eye, Butler half meeting his gaze with a feral looking smirk. It’s Rossi starting trouble this time, the brunette knocks his helmet off and ruffles his hair. Cooke lashes out in response, hitting Rossi on the shoulder in retaliation and the older man has the audacity to laugh. 

“Bloody bastard,” Cooke murmurs under his breath as he replaces his helmet. He doesn’t mind it really, it’s almost Rossi’s way of showing affection.

“Language,” Rossi chides, eyes alive with amusement. 

“Fuck off,” Cooke shoots back but a smile tries to tug at the corner of his lips. After that, Butler gets started on another story but Cooke’s only half listening.

Cooke intends to sleep during his downtime but the cramped and claustrophobic dug-out feels like it’s pressing on him, like it may come down in the whiff of a faint breeze. It doesn’t of course and Cooke knows it’s his nerves fucking with him and he tries his best to ignore the thoughts his brain tries to conjure. 

He tries to sleep, keep eyes closed but his sleep’s patchy and restless, the sort of dreamless sleep that has him waking up not realizing he’d even fallen asleep in the first place and somehow more tired. It’s frustrating, has him feeling irritable close to breaking point, hating himself and feeling weak for it. 

The sergeant wakes them up half an hour before dusk and they get ready, quickly drink their tea, and take position on the fire steps for stand to. Cooke thinks he sees something moving, glances round to see where the sergeant is but when he turns back to look down his rifle’s sights again it’s just another bloated body starting to rot. 

Cooke has that image imprinted in his mind as his section forms a work party repairing a bit of damaged trench, the result of a whizz-bang aimed at some ballsy soldiers trying to cook over an open fire a few nights previously. Further down the line, Rossi’s working in the same section with other signalers repairing the mangled cable.

There isn’t much chatter, the men focused on the work and it’s too easy for Cooke to lose sense of time. The routine blurs together until it’s the next day and they have the chance to sleep through the night. It’s a blessing, when they’re stood down after dusk. 

Cooke jumps down from the firestep in a sloppy movement and he’s grateful the sergeant isn’t looking in their direction as he does it. His bayonet must have glinted in the light of a star shell the brief moment it’s visible over the top of the trench’s sandbags because a sniper shot cracks over his head. 

“Fuck me!” Cooke breathes out, his eyes wild and nostrils flaring. There’s a smattering of nervous laughter. 

“Need a new pair of trousers, Cooke?” Butler teases. 

“Sod off, yeah?” he says through gritted teeth.

He lingers and waits for Rossi who’s much more controlled as he flicks on the safety of his rifle and steps down, carefully bringing it over his shoulder. They walk to the dug-out much closer than they need to but feeling the brush of Rossi’s sleeve against his arm is reassuring, it’s helping him regather his wits and stay calm.

“D’you think he made it?” Cooke says, considering the stars peeking out behind a thin layer of patchy cloud as they walk down the trench to their dug-out. 

“Who?” Rossi asks.

“Our messenger friend who hitched a lift in our convoy,” Cooke clarifies. He’s thinking about Malky too, shot the day before by a sniper when he was sent up to fix the wire but it’s too early for any of them to know just yet.

“Dunno,” Rossi shrugs. It sounds flippant but none of them can know, they’d all worried about the extra passenger even if none of them had voiced it. No one had brought it up since.

“Gov was pretty ballsy though,” Cooke points out. Rossi nods but stays quiet. He’s doing that thing he does where he’s tired where he’s withdrawn into his head but he’s still managing to keep up with the conversation.

“D’ya reckon we’re going up tomorrow?” Cooke asks. He’s trying to fill the silence, give Rossi something to focus on but he’s not got much left to say. Rossi makes a non-committal noise that Cooke interprets as “I don’t know” and they fall into comfortable silence.

Later the next day, the sergeant walks to their position and Cooke quietly murmurs “here comes trouble,” which earns him a swat on the shoulder and a quiet _careful_ from Rossi.

“Cooke, Singer and Butler - report to the officer’s dug-out, in your own time,” Then he saunters off, back up the line not waiting to see if they’re in tow. Cooke swallows, eyes glancing quickly to Rossi and puts his rifle over his shoulder properly and heads after the sergeant.

When they get there the sergeant nods for them to go in. Cooke stands at attention, snapping off a quick salute in near perfect timing with Butler and Singer and relaxes when he’s told to stand at ease. 

“I need a small team to go over and cut Bosche wires to make way for a larger raiding party tomorrow night,” Captain Smith says. Cooke swallows thickly and nods, feeling nausea and nerves beginning to build. He tries not to fidget, he glances at Singer and Butler on the other side of him and they’re wearing the same stoic expressions as they process what’s been told, eyes focused some point over Captain Smith’s shoulder.

“The raid will take place an hour after nightfall - about ten pm tonight, you three meet by the periscope station by your section. The password is _blue turnip_ ,” Smith places extra stress on the password, saying it in slow time in a way that’s near patronizing. Smith is so calm as he gives the brief, so collected and Cooke wonders how he does it as Smith glances each of them over. 

“Try to ascertain machine gun and gas canister positions if you can and _no_ heroics. That is all,” He dismisses them with a wave and gives a short-lived smile as he does. Cooke counts his chargers - he’s short of the required fifty and gets a top-up along with a few grenades before they leave. 

They leave the dug-out and Cooke’s grateful to be back in the open, to breathe fresh air even if it smells of mud and rotting corpses. He doesn’t wait for Singer or Butler as he heads back to Rossi. 

Rossi’s the first to glance up as they come back and Cooke slumps next to him, trying to steady his breathing. 

“What was that about? Another month of latrine duty?” Rossi asks. Cooke shoots him a glare and gives a short, brittle laugh, his hands shaking as he takes a drag of water from his canteen. 

“Wish it bloody was. Fucking raiding party,” Cooke says in a rush. Rossi doesn’t press for more but sits a little closer, their bodies pressing together and Cooke’s relieved to feel the weight of him.

Cooke finds it hard to eat at dinner, spends more time moving stuff around and he regrets having eaten at all by the time darkness settles over Flanders. He finds Singer and Butler, the three of them darkening their faces with ash from the cooking stoves. In the dug-out Cooke’s trembling hands take off any identifying marks and he turns his jacket inside out. Rossi’s dark eyes track Cooke’s movements as he walks over to Rossi’s cot. 

Cooke hands the marks - the identifying and his tags to Rossi half hoping the man won’t say anything.

“How are you doing?” Rossi asks softly. 

“Don’t-” Cooke says sharply, almost pleading. Rossi’s steely face softens the way it does when he’s worrying about Cooke. He wishes Rossi wouldn’t, that he’d look out for himself a little more too.

“I feel like I’m gonna fucking snap,” Cooke says quietly, hating how his voice cracks on the words. he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Touch is what he wants, something grounding. He’s keyed up and unable to relax, a machine gun had sprayed bullets close to their position and it was almost too close for comfort. His eyes wild and searching for comfort in Rossi’s face but all he sees is cool, dark pits devoid of warmth. His face unreadable and lips set in a thin line. 

Cooke wants a reminder there was some humanity left, some life worth clinging to. Something worth coming back to. Rossi gives him a look Cooke can’t quite read, and Cooke looks away, dejected. Rossi never says no to him - either verbally or by not answering without good reason - he can see Singer and Butler are getting ready out of the corner of his eye but it didn’t ease the sting of the silence as an answer that hung awkwardly between them.

Rossi opens a cigarette packet and offers one to Cooke - he doesn’t smoke really but anything’s a welcome distraction at this point. Rossi leans in to light the cigarette for him, shielding the flame with his calloused hands. With their heads this close Rossi mutters a quiet _later_ and Cooke understands. It’s too crowded, too open for Rossi to offer anything more than passing touches that linger a beat too long right now. Cooke slumps on the bunk with him, Rossi shuffling closer than he needs to be, letting Cooke feel him as a solid weight next to him. 

It’s war - he knows to expect casualties but it’s too easy to get in the mindset that it’s never going to be you. It’s never going to be your buddy. It’s a dangerous line of thinking to get into but they all do it. The shock of Malky being shot had rattled him, all of them really. It had Cooke feeling like he was gripping onto the thin thread of life of his friends, trying desperately not to let those threads slip through his fingers as they became increasingly difficult to hold. He was feeling like he was on borrowed time - they all are really.

Cooke smokes the cigarette slowly, spends more time considering the burning embers of the end as he tries to focus on the actions of inhaling the smoke and exhaling it slowly in a narrow stream as he tries to stay grounded in the present.

When Singer and Butler leave, Cooke lingers. Rossi shuffles closer still. More gently than he had any right to possess, Rossi tilts Cooke’s face so they’re staring at each other. They’re so close Cooke can feel him breathing, reminding Cooke of his humanity and that he’s alive. Rossi’s spare hand is a comforting weight on Cooke’s shoulder and Cooke near sobs at the relief of feeling him. Rossi runs his spare hand down Cooke’s cheek, the younger man leaning into the contact. He looks at Cooke’s lips, running his hand from Cooke’s shoulder to his hand. Cooke closes the rest of the distance between them but he doesn’t dare make it more than anything but a chaste press of lips. 

When their palms draw level, Rossi doesn’t let Cooke slide their fingers together but he exposes his wrist instead, getting him to feel his steady pulse under his fingers. Cooke tries not to think about how Rossi can probably feel his fingers trembling as he leans into Rossi’s shoulder. Cooke hates how he weeps a little, how his emotions catch up with him at that moment but at least it’s not full on sobbing, the type of ugly crying that makes you full body shudder. Rossi holds him like that for a little bit but gently pushes him away after a glance to his watch. Cooke’s a little more himself by then, feeling wrung out and tired.

“You need to go, love,” Rossi says softly. His voice is so small. Cooke can’t think of anything to say and Rossi lets him go without further word. Cooke loves him - truly does. He’s in too deep with it but it’d almost been easier to turn away if Rossi had stayed silent. 

Cooke joins the others by the periscope and the sergeant walks them down to the point where they’re going over the top. Captain Smith is waiting there to see them off, wishing them all good luck in turn. Cooke hopes Smith can’t feel how his hands tremble as he shakes Smith’s hand. 

The sergeant gives them the rough route to take and reminds them of the password. Blue turnip. Despite himself, Cooke’s lips turn upwards for the briefest moment in amusement to the choice of words. After that, Cooke stops paying attention, too focused on just trying to breathe and keep his dinner down. He’s handed the wire cutters and they’re given the all clear to go over. Further down the line, someone’s raising a helmet on a shovel - a distraction to keep sniper attention away from them as they go over the top. Butler goes over first - Cooke second and Singer bring up the rear of the raiding party. 

Cooke’s sure the Germans can hear him breathing as they begin to crawl towards their own wire, staying low to avoid being illuminated by the star shells searching for any would-be raiders. Cooke stays focused on Butler as he crawls forward, the men moving to a low crouch to pass the gaps in the wire of their own trenches. 

“Get down,” Butler hisses as a star shell arches up into the sky. Cooke ducks into one of the smaller craters, cursing as he loses his balance on the slippery mud, thanking his lucky stars it is as shallow as it looks. He keeps his head down, waits for the light to play out over him before changing looking up again. 

They get moving as close to a straight line path as possible but having to dodge around the craters and the deceased. Cooke tries not to think about the bodies, keeps his eyes focused dead ahead. He’s trying to focus on looking for German machine gun positions. 

It feels like it takes most of the night for them to cross no man’s land. They duck into craters to avoid star shells and drop low to avoid the unbiased rattle of the machine gun as it breaks the quiet of the night. Cooke thinks he catches the machine gun’s muzzle flashes and tries to imprint the memory, hoping he’ll recall it when they get back. 

As they get to the German front lines, another crack of a sniper rifle sounds further to the right of him and he wonders how long the ruse will hold out for. Cooke reaches out tenderly, getting the wire cutter into position before pulling the blades down. It sounds so loud and he’s sure he just alerted half the German army but no one comes to investigate. He works on cutting more wire until he hears the hushed tones of passing German soldiers. Cooke lays down low, pressing his body into the waterlogged mud and holds his breath.

As the voices fade down the trench, Cooke carries on and shuffles to another section of wire until Butler gives the signal to head back. It’s tempting to stand up and make a dash for it but that’s a fast way to get himself killed so Cooke fights his instincts screaming at him to run as they begin the journey back. It’s more terrifying not being able to see what’s behind.

When they’re almost half way home, Cooke catches a flash of light as a star shell goes up. He hears Butler swear and blindly follows him as they make a beak for a crater. Bullets scream around them and Cooke feels like he’s been kicked in the shoulder as they drop into the crater. Cooke’s gripping his left shoulder as they wait out the gunfire breathing hard. His hand feels damp and sticky but that could easily be mud he reasons but he draws a shaky breath and pulls it away, ducking low to avoid the light of another star shell trying to pinpoint their position. Sure enough, his hand comes back red. 

“Fuck,” Cooke whispers under his breath. 

“You okay Cooke?" Singer, the man of few words catches his reaction first, Butler too focused on waiting for a chance to make a break. Cooke takes a few breaths before answering. 

“Yeah.” Singer doesn’t look convinced but Cooke’s focused on getting back to their lines, back to Rossi. 

They’re stuck waiting out in the crater for a while, Cooke’s shoulder really starting to sting. He’s scared to see the damage. They wait for the gunfire to die down before moving to the next crater, staying low on their bellies dragging themselves through the mud. Cooke’s shoulder is on fire, the wound screaming in pain as he crawls forward inch by painful inch. He pauses briefly when it’s too much, bowing his head tears prick in the corner of his eyes and he scolds himself and forces himself forward, even whilst his body screams at him to stop and rest. Singer catches up with him and gives him a nudge forward.

“Stop!” a familiar English voice calls. It sounds like Parry or Atkins but it’s difficult to tell and Cooke couldn’t care less at this point in time. He wants to lay down and sleep, he wants the pain to stop. 

“We're English! Blue turnip!” Cooke calls out, hoping they don’t catch his voice breaking round the words. They can hear voices and Cooke realizes they’re late returning for having to wait it out in the craters and it’s a few tense moments later, ducking low as the machine gun lets out a burst of fire indiscriminately in their direction. 

Cooke’s never been so relieved to be back in a trench, his knees feeling weak under him as he slides down onto the sodden duckboard, losing his grip and reaching out to balance against the trench wall. He catches his injured shoulder and curses, having to take a few moments out just to breathe. 

“Well done lads,” the sergeant says when they’re all accounted for. Cooke remembers the machine gun position he noted but it’s location has become distorted in his mind, not helped by having to weave around the obstacles and bodies in no man’s land. 

Singer and Butler go to join a group of soldiers sitting around a stove cooking bacon, no doubt itching to tell the tale of their raid. Cooke wanders off to the dug-out to find Rossi. 

Rossi’s still up by the time Cooke walks in the dug-out, and Cooke’s never been more relieved to see him. Jondalar’s reading in the corner but Cooke pays no mind. He heads straight over and collapses on the bunk next to where Rossi’s perched, the older soldier so focused on staring into space and turning Cooke’s tags and other identifying marks over in his hand he jumps when he feels Cooke beside him. 

“Sorry,” Cooke murmurs. Rossi pulls him into a hug, not thinking but pulls back quickly when Cooke complains as he catches the wound. Rossi looks him over, concerned and his eyes settle on Cooke’s shoulders. A brief look of surprise passes over Rossi’s face but he quickly schools his expression into something more neutral. 

“You need to go to an aid post,” Rossi says firmly. 

“No - it’s fine,” Cooke insists. Last thing he wants is to bother the already busy doctors or to have someone fussing over him when he wants to rest. 

“Love, that is not fine,” Rossi says with a bit more force. Cooke goes to glance at his shoulder but decides he doesn’t want to know, nausea pooling in his stomach as he catches the sight of the gash. Rossi must have seen something in Cooke’s expression and his face softens. 

“At least let me look at it,” Rossi asks. Cooke nods slowly, staring straight ahead over Rossi’s shoulder, gritting his teeth as Rossi helps him out of his jacket and the greyback shirt. Cooke looks again and the wound isn’t as bad as he expected but it still nauseates him seeing his own blood pooling into the gash. It’s not bleeding heavily and it looks like the bullet skimmed over him as he ducked down into the crater. 

Rossi leaves Cooke for a brief moment to get his own canteen and dressings and comes back with Jondalar. Cooke’s never been good with doctors - always hated being poked and prodded and the fact it’s Rossi hardly helps.

“He should go to an aid post,” Jondalar says, voice tight with concern. Cooke shakes his head. 

“No,” Cooke shakes his head. “They’re busy enough,” he says, hating how broken his voice sounds.

“We need to get this cleaned up at least,” Rossi murmurs softly as he lays out what he needs on his bunk so it’s accessible and ready to go. Jondalar holds a torch up to the wound and Cooke flinches with a sharp intake of breath as Rossi starts to clean it running a tiny stream of water over it. The sting of the cold water has Cooke squirming and fidgeting uncomfortably and it’s worse as Rossi starts to work on cleaning the wound with damp gauze. The press of Rossi’s hand is hard and clumsy and Cooke can’t help but notice how much it shows Rossi doesn’t know what he’s doing. He thinks he should have gone to an aid post after all, but he wouldn’t be much better off. They likely wouldn’t want Rossi in the way whilst they worked.

The longer it goes on, the rougher Cooke’s breath comes. He thinks he might actually start crying if Rossi doesn’t stop soon, his breath catching in his throat as he goes to grab Rossi’s arms. 

“Stop-” Cooke pleads. His voice sounds so broken, even to his own ears but he doesn’t have the energy to even try and mask how he’s feeling. Rossi doesn’t stop and Cooke grabs at him a little harder, trying to pull Rossi’s hands away jerk his shoulder away from them. He feels like all the air sucked out of the room and he can’t pull enough of it into his lungs to breathe. Tears are streaking down his face freely, unwelcome and he hates himself for it. 

He can’t even find words to say when Rossi does pull away to look at him and he tries to focus on breathing. Rossi crouches in front of them, bringing their eyes level. Cooke wants to look away but when he does he feels like the walls are closing in on him, further pressing out any remaining air in the murky little dug-out. He focuses on Rossi’s face instead and that’s almost worse.

“I know it hurts, but you need this wound clean,” Rossi says, his voice is so soft. Cooke shakes his head and mutters a quiet _I can’t._ It’s too much - the pain of the injury aggravated by the long crawl back and the attention to himself whilst Rossi and Jondalar have been working to clean it. 

“Focus on breathing for me, love,” It sounds so easy when Rossi asks it like a favor. Cooke nods, breathes out a shaky sigh. 

“Breathe in through your nose, hold it for three seconds, exhale through your mouth,” Rossi tells him and Cooke hangs onto his voice, it may as well be a lifeline. Rossi repeats the mantra and Cooke follows his instructions, tears falling silently. Rossi’s hand cards through his hair, his spare palm resting in Cooke’s hand. The touch is grounding. Cooke calms down slowly and Rossi is so gentle and patient with him, muttering soft words Cooke can’t quite make out over the white noise of the trench outside but it helps nonetheless.

“It’s okay to be human, angel - we get knocked down sometimes but we have to get ourselves back together so we can face what the Hun throw at us next,” Rossi murmurs. Cooke nods, tries to fight a fresh wave of tears. Cooke calms eventually and it’s a relief when he does. He still feels shaky but more put together at the same time, could even chance talking of Rossi asked that of him. 

“Besides, I need someone to raise a dog with,” Rossi adds, giving a small smile as he ruffles Cooke’s hair. Cooke does choke on a sob at that and a few tears do spill over. 

“I’m stupid,” Cooke mutters after a while, his tone bitter and angry at himself for being careless to get hurt in the first place. 

“No you’re not,” Jondalar says firmly. Cooke wants to fight that, explain why he’s wrong but Rossi nods in agreement with Jondalar’s statement. There’s a beat before Jondalar asks “How did it happen?” Cooke has to gather himself before he can tell them both the events - if he’s really honest he’s been hoping to avoid it. 

“We were caught by a star shell-” A long gasping breath. “I think I got caught when we jumped into a crater,” Cooke has to force himself to hold eye contact with Rossi - expecting to see anger but only seeing warmth and understanding. He doesn’t see Jondalar’s reaction but he does feel a hand squeezing his good shoulder in reassurance.

“We need to finish cleaning this - at least before the others come back to rest,” Rossi says softly. Cooke nods. Draws in a shaky breath. Rossi stays crouched in front of him, hands resting against Cooke’s palms. Cooke keeps his grip light, not wanting to seem too needy for touch - especially not in front of Jondalar who Rossi gives a nod to, a silent permission to carry on with cleaning the wound. Jondalar still presses firmly into the wound and Cooke can’t help squirming against the touch but his fingers feel more practiced as he works any dirt out of the cut. 

“Focus on me, darling, focus on breathing for me,” Rossi says when Cooke starts fighting too much again. It takes everything Cooke has to stay still, when he starts getting agitated again Rossi gently cups his face with both his hands. Rossi’s touch is so soft, almost feather light when he brushes tears out of Cooke’s eyes and Cooke melts into his hands, stops fidgeting long enough for Jondalar to finish the wound and dress it. He pads gauze over the top, awkwardly wrapping remaining gauze around Cooke’s shoulder and chest to hold it in place. Cooke murmurs a quiet _thank you_ to Jondalar when he finishes the job.

Finally, _finally_ , he’s allowed to rest though it’s hard getting comfortable without aggravating the wound. Rossi stays with him and cards fingers through his hair until he hears the other men come back into the dug-out. Cooke falls asleep shortly after that.

Cooke startles awake from a nightmare where the bullet had hit him square in the chest, feeling winded as he gasps for breath and tries to regain his bearings in the dug-out. He doesn’t realize he’s dreaming right away, the imagery so vivid and realistic even when disconcerting shadows play out across the walls and the ceiling of the trench seems to wobble threatening to cave in or when the sheets seem to melt out from under his fingers. The dug-out wall does collapse and Cooke finally jolts awake properly, breath coming in rapid gasps. He grips the sheets - they’re real and scratchy under him. 

Cooke hears soft footsteps and curses himself and tries to fake sleep. A hand on his shoulder has him violently startle, a full body jerk. He weeps a little as a sharp flare-up of pain in his shoulder reminds him of the injury. 

“It’s me, love,” Rossi’s voice is a quiet whisper Cooke barely hears. Cooke turns over to see if it really is him - not his mind tricking him again. Rossi must see the tear tracks glistening in the murky light of the dug-out. Cooke can’t form words, he just focuses on breathing but it’s feeling harder to do, like it’s harder to pull in oxygen. Rossi talks him through the breathing routine and Cooke’s breath evens out much quicker than it had when he panicked earlier. 

“Want to talk about that?” Rossi asks once Cooke’s settled enough. Cooke peers up at Rossi and sighs. 

“Nightmare. Woke up from one dream into another,” Cooke says, his voice shaky. Cooke’s always struggled with nightmares or dreams that have him woken up feeling alienated but it’s been worse since the trenches. He struggles most with trying to keep his emotions at bay when he wakes up from one - he doesn’t want to be seen as weak or a coward. His father may not be on the front lines with him but he can’t help but hear the sting of his father’s words whenever he wakes up from one.

Rossi gets Cooke to look at him and kisses him properly, tongue slipping in and Cooke drowns in the feeling of him. Rossi stays with him this time, his fingers back in Cooke’s hair, touch grounding. Rossi murmurs soft reassurances to Cooke until he falls asleep. 


End file.
